


Burning black

by Builder



Series: Nat on Fire [4]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Concussions, Eating Disorders, Emotions, F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Illness and Injury, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Injury, Mission Fic, Natasha Romanov Is Not A Robot, Other, Post-Concussion Syndrome, Sexual Assault, Sickfic, Steve Rogers actually cares, Torture, Vomiting, all the feels, not the thing itself, the details are not discussed, this is about the characters dealing with the feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-19
Updated: 2018-05-20
Packaged: 2019-04-24 22:06:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14364687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Builder/pseuds/Builder
Summary: If you break something broken, that doesn’t make it fixed.  Only destroyed.  Worse than beyond repair, if such a possibility even exists.  And that’s how Nat feels._____Nat on Fire 4.0





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to the wonderful tumblr anon who requested this fic. You can find me over there as @builder051
> 
>  
> 
> This is my OG Marvel angst/sickfic series, and it definitely has a special place in my heart. I started working on the original Nat on Fire story 2 years ago this month, which is hard to believe. It simultaneously feels like yesterday and a decade ago…
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS: Abuse/torture, canon-typical violence, rape/non-con (event not described, but the aftermath is part of the plotline), mentions of EDs, injuries, and (of course) illness/emeto
> 
> I do not know where trash like this comes from; sometimes I just get ideas, and then I wonder what’s wrong with me.

 

_____

The sun is burning black

Falling, falling

It’s beating on my back

With a fire

_____

 

Nat doesn’t realize she’s been holding her breath until she finally hits the floor.  The side of her rib cage jars as she goes down on the concrete, and air gusts out of her lungs.  She fights to suck it back in, but it’s as if the impact has made her body forget how to inhale. 

She lays there gasping, watching the cell door close in slow motion.  She has a clear view of her kidnapper’s sneering face. It’s the perfect moment to stand up and fight back.  He’s making a mistake, leaving himself so open. But Nat can’t make her body move. Her vision shimmers, then turns to black before she manages a full breath.

***

Everything hurts when Nat opens her eyes.  A ray of dusty sunshine filters in through the bars on a tiny window set high in the wall.  It’s bright as laser light to her sore head. She squints and throws her hand over her face even as her mind races ahead. 

_ Ok.  Sunlight. _  That means she’s being kept on an exterior wall.   _ A high window. _  She’s probably on the lowest level, maybe in a basement.  That means no exit on this floor. That means guards on the stairs.  That means… 

She’s too tired to think about what that means.  She’s not sure she can trust her own eyes, anyway.  It’s hard enough to remember her name, and as to where she is… she doesn’t have a clue. 

Nat gently pulls her fingers down the surface of her exposed cheek and across her jaw.  There doesn’t seem to be any damage, but then again, that’s not what hurts. The other side of her face, the side ground into the floor, smarts like hell.  So does her side. And her hip bone. 

She starts to sit up, but stops immediately as the small amount of air in her lungs escapes in a sharp hiss.  Pain lances through her like a flame burning her for her sins. Nausea comes out of nowhere, and her meager stomach contents spray out onto the concrete in front of her.  Nat sputters and scoots her cheek an inch away from the mess, fighting the sick feelings pressing up from her stomach and down from her head. She’d love to know what she did to get herself into this situation, but all she gets is a dull buzz echoing in her head.

It takes several minutes for Nat to realize the sound is actually in her ears and not something she’s imagining.  Well, more like in one ear. The communication device is trapped under the bashed-in side of her face and possibly still working. 

Nat flushes with embarrassment and uses the floor to leverage herself onto her back.  She fishes in her ear for the small piece of plastic. The sound feels like it’s boring a hole in her eardrum.  Considering how the rest of her body feels, it’s not that bad. But the static is annoying. And she’d like to hold onto her patience. 

She holds the device in front of her face to inspect it, but her vision blurs and she can’t focus no matter how many times she blinks.  Nat can’t get the facts to add up in her head, either. She’s in a tiny concrete room with bars on the door and window. She’s a prisoner.  That part is clear enough. She has a comm, so she’s been on a mission. 

Nat looks down at herself as best she can without straining.  Moving her eyes makes her nauseous again, though, and she has to stop to breathe before she can actually observe. 

She’s wearing leggings and a t-shirt, or at least the torn remains of such an outfit.  It’s what she usually pairs with a leather jacket when she needs to fight, but it’s unclear if her cover’s going to be blown. 

So where is her jacket?  Where are her weapons? What the hell was she doing?  No matter how many ways Nat shuffles the deck, she ends up at the same blank page of missing memory. 

Nat glares at the comm between her fingers.  Did she have a partner she was talking to? Or was she communicating with Fury back at headquarters? 

What country is she in?  And how long has she been gone?  For now, those facts are beside the point.

Nat’s heart flutters.  It could mean there’s another prisoner here with her. 

Or she could be here alone, with no one even aware she’s been…taken. 

Thinking about it is useless.  And it’s exacerbating her headache. 

There’s only one way for Nat to find out, and it’s dangerous.  If her kidnappers hear her… Or if they find the comm… She stops imagining when she meets inevitable violence on both ends.  She doesn’t want to think about how her reputation will suffer if she sends out an SOS. But in times like this, survival is supposed to be more important.  Supposed to be.

If there’s a code word or something Nat’s meant to be using, she’s forgotten it.  “Some fucking backup would be…spectacular,” she chokes. Then she chomps the stuttering comm between her back teeth until it cracks in half and throws the pieces into the corner.

***

The vomit in the middle of the floor smells bad.  It has the whole time, and being aware of it isn’t doing anything, except maybe grounding Nat in this painful slice of reality. 

She can’t tell what time it is, or how long she’s been conscious.  She doesn’t know how long she was unconscious before that, either. The sliver of sunlight coming through the window might have moved, or maybe she’s seeing things.  Her head hurts just badly enough that seeing things seems like a solid possibility. 

Nat keeps thinking herself in circles.   _ Locked room.  Kidnapper. Mission.  Locked room… _  She tries folding her arms over her knees and burying her face in them, but it makes her bruised temple throb, and her breath shortens around the rattle in her ribcage, so she settles for leaning against the wall with her legs outstretched.  She stares down at her bare feet, wondering how the fuck she lost her shoes. 

She must be blowing time out of proportion.  Minutes are passing, not hours. She’d be hungry or sleepy if the day was actually slipping by. 

But as soon as Nat has the thought, she knows she’s kidding herself.  Half a lifetime of denying herself sustenance has screwed with her self-awareness. 

She’s kidding herself again.  Half a lifetime? More like all of it.  Not a few days ago she was hunched over the toilet in her bare-bones apartment, hoping shoving her fist down her throat would lessen the urge to slit her wrists.

Nat shakes her head, even though it brings on a fresh rush of agony.  At least she’s having recent memories. That’s a plus.

***

She must’ve passed out again, because Nat’s jarred when the bars on the cell door start to scrape across the floor with a sound like nails on a chalkboard.

“Ready, my sweet?” 

“What?”  Nat squeezes her eyes shut for a second, but everything’s still soft around the edges when she opens them.  She’s tired. She doesn’t feel well. That’s probably not an excuse for saying  _ what? _ to the enemy instead of some kind of SHIELD-approved dialogue.  She should’ve at least said something snarky.

A slender man with grey hair and cold blue eyes steps around the door.  He peers down at Nat. “Not feeling so good?” he coos. His voice is thick with an Eastern European accent, but Nat can’t place the exact region.  “Don’t worry, I’ll be gentle.”

He’s standing there, totally open, wearing trousers and a button-down shirt.  Unarmed. “Come on.”

The hand resting against the cell door is fisted, so Nat scratches the unarmed portion of her assessment.  He could be holding anything. But she still should’ve attacked by now, regardless of her injuries. Nat supposes it isn’t too late to try, so she clenches her stomach muscles as tightly as she dares and squeezes herself up off the floor, suspending in a chair position for a second before finding her feet.  It’s very apparent she hasn’t stood in a while. She’s immediately woozy. Her head feels like it’s banging off the walls.

“That’s it.  Come here, my sweet.”  The kidnapper holds out his free hand. 

Nat steels herself for one more moment.  Then stumble-jogs into a flying kick aimed at his chest.

The man laughs as he slams backward against the wall in the narrow hallway outside the cell.  Nat stands in the doorway, panting. She raises her fists.

“Feeling frisky?”  He raises one eyebrow and licks his lips.

Disgust wars with outright pain as Nat struggles to stay calm while she collects herself.  The intense prickle running down her side tells her multiple ribs are probably broken. The discomfort and lack of oxygen render her glazed and calm even though her heart thumps wildly as she weighs the options of fight and flight.

She should smash him across the bridge of his nose and just finish him off now.  She knows how to do it so cleanly he won’t even bleed. Who cares about mercy policies or potential intelligence-gathering?  Nat has a headache. Probably a concussion.

The kidnapper grins at her, and Nat draws back her arm.  She aims for the spot where his nose meets his brow bone, but at the last second, she changes her mind and socks him in the jaw.  She hears it dislocate before his head snaps against the cement wall. 

“Fuck you,” Nat spits.

“No,” the man says with a laugh.  He uses the heel of his hand to realign the bottom half of his face and force it back into place.  The smile distorts as he manually adjusts his jaw, but the corners of his mouth stay turned up nonetheless.  “I think I’m going to fuck you.”

He opens his fist to reveal a device the size of a flash drive and just as unremarkable.  He skims his thumb over it, and suddenly blasts of blue-white lightening split the air between them.  Hot energy lances over Nat’s face and torso, and her vision distorts as she hits the ground, seizing. The scent of burning hair scorches her throat.  She tastes copper, and this time she’s grateful when she blacks out.

***

Nat wishes she was still unconscious when she stumbles back into her cell.  The kidnapper pushes her through the door. He’s not rough with her, and that makes it worse.  She tries to backhand him, but he catches her wrist. “Ah, ah,” he tuts. “You know better than that, my sweet.”

“Don’t fucking touch me,” Nat says through clenched teeth.  She pulls her hand out of his cold grip. Nat can hear the change in his breathing as he leers at the back of her head.  The cell door echoes with metallic clicks as he pulls it shut. Nat waits until she can’t hear his retreating footsteps to let out her breath. 

Within seconds, she’s dry heaving.  Nat wishes she could have the satisfaction of bringing something up, but she’s already far too empty.  At least that means she’s one step closer to starving to death. 

The pain between her legs merges with the twisting in her gut, and it all floats upward in a haze of wooziness that sends Nat tumbling to her knees.  The cold floor bites into her bare skin, and she wishes she still had her torn leggings. Flimsy as they were, at least they’d be a barrier between her shins and the concrete.  And between her body and her thoughts. 

Nat’s head still throbs, and the urge to cry rises in her throat, more disgusting than the urge to vomit.  She curls in on herself. Nat drops her chin toward her chest and closes her eyes, but the images she sees are worse than the blank of the shadowy wall.  She opens them again and folds her arms over her chest, flattening her breasts and pretending to be someone else. Someone who’s still a virgin to violence and pain.

***

Nat can’t breathe.  She’s drowning, she’s sinking into a pit of flames that steal the oxygen from her mouth.  She’s dying. She’s falling, falling…

Nat’s eyes snap open.  Someone else’s hand is clamped over her mouth.  Her first instinct is to protect herself. Nat pulls one arm tighter around her body and begins to struggle with the other.  She snaps her teeth at the fingers on her lips, and she feels her fist connect with someone’s jaw over her head. The person grunts.  It’s a deep sound. So it’s a man. But not the same man as before. Nat lets her guard down, but only just.

He loosens his grip on Nat’s upper arm, but keeps his hand on her face.  “Shh, hey, it’s ok,” he whispers. The voice is familiar. Nat blinks hard in the darkness, and a face swims into view.  Well, half of one. His jawline is visible, red from where she’s punched him. His eyes are outlined in goggles coming down from a dark-colored helmet.

“Cap?” Nat mumbles, not convinced she’s awake. 

“It’s ok,” Steve says again.  “We have 90 seconds before the security camera changes directions and the tape starts to loop.  Can you walk? If I help you?” He slides one hand under Nat’s body and starts to support her upright.

“Yes, of course I —oh, shit…”  She loses her breath to a hiss as Steve’s gloved palm finds her ribs.  They’re broken, no question. The pain almost makes her retch, but she swallows hard and forces herself to breathe, even though that hurts just as much. 

It’s not that bad.  She’s been through this before.  All of this. Nat’s sure of it, though her brain is still too sore to sort out the exact details.  The exquisite pain blossoming across her side, the cavernous ache from her temple to her jaw, the snagging burn inside her stretching from pubic bone to navel…  None of it’s exactly new. And now that Nat has company…

“Of course I can,” she tries again.  Her voice is barely a hoarse whisper, but Nat imbues it with enough defiance to make her point clear. 

Steve doesn’t argue.  He’s smart; he knows there’s not time.  “Ok,” he says, though his eyes are full of doubt.  “There’s an alcove under the stairs. The cameras don’t reach that far.  Make it to there, and we’ll talk.” He holds out his hand, and Nat begrudgingly takes it.  His touch is warm, even through the glove, and Nat imagines it combining with the boiling discomfort in her veins to leave scald marks on her skin.  She braces against him and hauls herself to her feet, breathing as deeply as she dares to keep the dizziness in check. 

Steve steers Nat in front of him, one hand resting lightly on her shoulder, and holds his shield with the other.  “Ok, it’s not far,” he murmurs. “See?” Nat imagines he’s nodding toward the shadowy block of space beneath the L of the staircase that starts at the opposite end of the hall.  “We’ll be safe there.”

“I know, doofus.  What, do you think I’m stupid?”  It’s a waste of breath, but vocalizing it helps ease the frustration that’s quickly turning to physical pain.

“No,” Steve whispers as he pushes Nat across the line of shadow and into the alcove.  “I think you have a concussion.” He sets his shield on the floor and takes off his helmet, then bends closer to Nat and stares into her eyes.  “Yeah. You’re…you’re beat up, Nat.” 

He reaches for her swollen cheek.  It’s probably bruised purple, and Nat wonders if her cheekbone is fractured, and maybe her orbit.  “Don’t touch me,” Nat breathes, taking a step backwards into the wall. She starts to lose her footing, but manages to hold on long enough to slide quietly back to the floor.

“Hey, alright.”  Steve holds up his hands and steps back, putting as much space between them as the small space allows.  “I’m not gonna hurt you, Nat. Ok?” He gives her a once-over, his gaze raking over her stringy hair and ripped t-shirt and bare legs.  Steve’s voice falters. “Ok?”

Then Nat does just about the worst thing she can think of.  She starts to cry.

***

Nat’s head is in Steve’s lap, and she hates it.  A pair of oversized windbreaker pants are thrown over her legs like a blanket, probably the best Steve could do to give her dignity without traumatizing her further. 

Nat snorts at the thought, and her ribs catch, forcing her to take a shallow inhale.  She’s not traumatized. 

“You alright?” Steve whispers.  “You’ve been out for a little while.  Want to try to sit up?” He makes to help her, but Nat bats his hand away.

“I’ll do it,” she wheezes.  Nat hopes she hasn’t punctured a lung.  But it would hurt more if she had. Wouldn’t it? 

Nat keeps a straight face as she regains equilibrium, but it takes all her willpower.  Sweat breaks out over her forehead, and she’s not sure if it’s from exertion or illness.  She feels both acutely. 

“Alright, spill,” Nat croaks, wetting her lips.  “You have to tell me what’s going on.”

“Hm.”  Steve folds his hands under his chin.  “How about I ask you a few questions first.”

Nat lets out a humorless chuckle.  “Seriously?” 

Steve’s concerned expression doesn’t budge.

“Ok, ok.”  Nat swallows a cough.  “Natasha Romanov. 2014.”  She squints to think. “Obama?”  She nods gingerly. “Final answer.  How’d I do?”

“Answering the questions doesn’t necessarily mean you don’t have a concussion,” Steve says.  “You…look like you’re in a lot of pain.”

She is, but Nat’s not going to acknowledge it.  At least, not out in the open. “You got drugs in your med kit?” she asks instead.

“Yeah.”  Steve rummages in a pocket and pulls out a zippered case of bandages and alcohol wipes and tiny bottles of painkillers.  He shakes out two tabs of what looks like extra-strength Tylenol. 

“That all I get?”  Nat sniffs in irritation. 

Steve closes his fist, hiding the pills away.  “No, you don’t get any. Not yet.” He pulls a squeeze pack of high-calorie energy gel from the med kit.  “How long has it been since you’ve eaten?”

“I…don’t know,” Nat admits.  “How long have I been here?” Plus a matter of hours or days, depending on her current habits of self-starvation.  She’s not clear on those either.

“Well,” Steve checks the old-timey analog watch tucked under the flap of his glove, “I was assigned to act on your distress call…maybe 15 hours ago?”  He looks at her. “But you were on and off before that. Your comm went untraceable hours before it stopped working.” He surveys the damage to the side of her face, probably trying to time her beating and make everything line up.  “A couple days?” 

Nat shrugs and refuses to make eye contact.

Steve tears the top off the energy gel and holds it out.  “What happened, Nat?” he asks. His voice is gentle. Too gentle.  Nat reaches for words, to tell him to shut the hell up, but all she gets are more tears.

In all honesty, she doesn’t know.  The evidence makes certain parts stand out, but not the parts that are supposed to matter.  What organization is the kidnapper with? What kind of tech is he harboring? What intel can she gather?  What innocent civilians are at risk? Nat can’t answer a single one. Her stomach aches with guilt and failure. 

She looks down at a sliver of her bare thigh peeking out from the wad of dark nylon covering her lap.  It’s hard to see in the half-darkness, but the shadows of bruises are spreading there, too. Nat looks away, disgusted.  She was half-conscious when he threw her against the wall and tore her leggings down to her ankles. Just immobilized with bolts of whatever energy tech he held in the palm of his hand.  It had hurt. And she’d just taken it. Nat hates herself for it. 

She hates herself more for caring.  She’s been trained for this. It’s not supposed to bother her.  And it hasn’t bothered her. Every person she’s kissed or let into her pants, they’re no different from those she’s punched or kicked.  Small damages. Even those who have taken her when she didn’t belong to them. They didn’t matter. 

So why the fuck is she crying again?  She can’t afford to lose the hydration, now that escaping seems possible.  Somehow Nat can’t make herself care about that either. 

She suddenly feels overexposed, and she moves as quickly as her dizzy head will allow, stretching the waistband of the oversized pants and jamming her legs into them.  Nat looks down, but turns her head away as soon as she catches a glimpse of the stains on her underwear. She hopes Steve does too.

Steve unzips another pocket and shakes open a thin rain poncho.  It’s slick like the skin of a tent, but supposedly warm. “Here.”  He drapes it over Nat’s shoulders, taking care, it seems, not to let his touch linger. 

It’s only now that she’s covered that Nat realizes she’s cold.  Her joints are stiff, and everything aches with a sharp prickle like snow against fever-warm flesh.  Nothing is supposed to be this way. She needs to be warm and limber at all times, ready to parry any attack while her heart and brain stay on ice.  She’s supposed to be cool and collected, not melting into a puddle of despair. A tear dribbles down Nat’s cheek and joins a trail of something dripping from her nose.  She wipes it on the edge of the poncho, and it isn’t until she leans back against the wall that she realizes it’s blood.

“Fuck,” Nat mutters, swiping at it with the back of her hand.  The flow doesn’t last long, but it makes a mess, smearing up her forearm and down to her lips.  Nat tastes the metallic tang running down the back of her throat, and she almost gags when Steve offers the energy gel again. 

“I know you don’t want it, but you need calories.  And painkillers,” he says. Nat still doesn’t move, so Steve lets out his breath and starts over.  “There are two guards at the top of this staircase, ok? I’ve seen them on the CCTV. Agent Hill hacked their feed remotely to start looping as soon as we were clear, so as far as the cameras go, you’re still in your cell.  But when they change shifts in…” He checks his watch again. “An hour and 22 minutes, they’re gonna do a walk-through. And you have to be ready to fight by then.”

“I’m ready to fight now…capsicle.”  She was going to say  _ baby _ , but the word got caught on the way out.  The tenderness would’ve been too disgusting, even in a joke.  Too much like  _ my sweet. _

Nat shakes her head so the pain will drown out her thoughts.  It amps up the dizziness, though, and she has to try twice to grab the energy gel out of Steve’s palm.  She clamps her teeth around the top of the pouch and squeezes.

“Steady?”  Steve hovers his hand over her elbow, still not touching.

“Fuck you.”  The frosting-like gel on her tongue turns sour as bile creeps up her throat.  Nat struggles to push it down without gagging. The flashback starts before she can stop it.  She would’ve been powerless anyway, but Nat doesn’t want to think about it. The images swimming through her head are blurred with the memory of pain, but they’re also chemically sharp, seasoned with the same unpleasant tang of her childhood in the Red Room. 

_ Fuck you _ .  It’s something Nat says all the time.  She presses her hand over her mouth and swallows vomit.  It only happened once this time, and the response is already Pavlovian.  Well, it only happened once that she remembers. 

Nat gags again on the thought, and it seems Steve can’t take it anymore.  He takes the squeeze pack from her limp grip and wraps both hands around hers.  “Hey,” he whispers. “If you get sick, you get sick.”

She throws up on the floor between them, more than she thinks could possibly be in her.  But she’s spewing up her feelings along with long-digested food this time, so maybe it does make sense. 

Nat’s so revolted she can barely cut off the retching, even when she knows she’s done.  Every contraction of her diaphragm jars her ribs, making them feel like they’re splintering all over again.  Hot tears stream from her eyes, and her throat’s contracted too tightly to let air into her lungs. She manages a microscopic gasp and tips her head back against the wall as just about everything inside her crumbles.  Nat feels her face contort with the pain and emotion as she finally gives in and lets herself cry.

It doesn’t matter that she’s been sniveling for the past day or so.  The gravity of the situation hits all at once, and Nat loses it. Everything.  The strength she’s scrapped together seeps down from her sore head, through her raw throat and battered ribcage, and into the cold concrete floor.  She feels like nothing. Just a pile of bones, empty and waiting to be crushed to dust. That’s all she’s worth now. Dust.

“Nat, it’s alright,” Steve murmurs.  “Shhh, you’re gonna be ok.”

Nat doesn’t have a handle on her volume.  Her blood pumps so loudly in her ears she can’t hear herself sobbing. 

“I’m gonna get you out of here.  We’ll get you patched up.”

He doesn’t get it.  He can’t begin to understand, and Nat’s not about to explain it to him, even if she had enough breath to say the words.  The Red Room broke her, years ago, before she’d heard of SHIELD or even the KGB. Not that they’d had to do much to make her snap, the Vaganova school had already cracked her with its underhanded ballet masters and leering patrons.  And the lack of a wholesome upbringing had served her well. Up until now. 

If you break something broken, that doesn’t make it fixed.  Only destroyed. Worse than beyond repair, if such a possibility even exists.  And that’s how Nat feels. “I…” She shakes her head a millimeter to each side, and it’s a miracle that doesn’t send it rolling across the floor. 

“You’re allowed to hurt, Nat.  You don’t have to just stand there and take it.”  Steve squeezes her hand and brings one of his gloved palms up to pat her elbow. 

“Don’t…touch…me,” Nat sobs.  But even so, she leans toward him.  No matter how little she weighs, it’s too much to carry.  There are too many fractures in her foundation. Probably literally, considering the bone-deep pain stretching from hip to forehead. 

Steve doesn’t retract.  He doesn’t move at all. “I won’t,” he whispers.  “I…I know what he did to you.” He bites his lip. His eyes might be glistening, but Nat’s vision is downright cloudy. 

“You don’t know a damn thing.”  Nat blinks hard, and her orbit screeches in agony.  Leave it to her to have broken the side of her face.  It’s a stupid thing to say, given that she’s not sure what country she’s in or what organization she’s fighting or when or how Steve even got here.  And it’s not even what she means. That message is more like  _ I don’t want you to have to _ . 

“You’re right.  I…I’m sorry. I really am, Nat, I’m so sorry…”  He keeps going on and on, or maybe it just seems that way because he stretches his arms open and all of a sudden Nat’s head is against his chest and Steve’s words and his breaths meld together in a ripple of quiet vibrations.

***

“Hey, Nat?” 

She’s warm.  And kind of comfortable. 

“We have to go.  Do you think you can sit up?” 

Nat takes on the task of opening her eyes first.  They feel gritty, and just unveiling her visual field is enough to bring back nausea and vertigo.  Slowly her senses come back to her, along with markers of time and place. 

There’s still puke on the floor.  Just like there was in her cell. Just like there was in the bathroom of her apartment.  Steve doesn’t seem to care that they’re practically sitting in her filth, so Nat decides she doesn’t either. 

“Go where?” she rasps, finally catching on. 

“Home,” Steve says, a small smile flickering over his lips. 

He’s skipped a step, though.  Hasn’t he? They’re on a mission.  Aren’t they?

“Guards,” Nat remembers.  “Right?”

“Don’t worry about them,” Steve says.  He looks to his shield. “I’ll cover us until we get outside.  I can carry you.” He goes to push a lock of hair out of her face, but the strands are glued into the scabbing wound on her temple. 

“No,” Nat says, leaning back toward the wall.  “No, no.” She summons every ounce of strength and gets as far as her knees.  With a deep breath, she manages to put one foot flat on the floor. 

Steve’s hand goes to the small of her back to spot her.  “Whoa, easy. You’re injured. You’re sick.”

“Oh, fu…  Goddammit.”  Nat uses Steve’s shoulder to heaver herself onto her feet.  If she manages to train herself out of cursing, she might just do him proud.  Not that she wants to. She uses the singular moment of height over him to glare down and set her jaw with determination and masked pain.  “I’m gonna fight.”

Steve stands as well, ghosting his hand around Nat’s waist to ensure she doesn’t fall.  She holds her ground and gives him a weak push. “You haven’t had painkillers. You’re seriously dehydrated, ”Steve protests.  “It’s ok to…to need a minute.” He’s practically pleading now. 

A throbbing sound comes from overhead.  Either Nat’s overworked heart is displaced again, or somebody is coming down the stairs.  Two somebodies, it would seem. Weighed down with outdated tactical gear. The footsteps aren’t in unison.  They’re not military. 

“We don’t have a minute,” Nat says.  Even slowed with illness and exhaustion, she can’t fight her instincts.  A catalogue of hand-to-hand maneuvers and fighting stances flick through her mind, and she hikes Steve’s over-long pants up higher on her waist.  So what if she’s broken beyond broken? She could be walking out to her death, battered and barefoot. But at least she’s walking out.

Nat steps out of the shadows of the alcove just as the two guards turn from the bottom step to the hallway.  One of them looses a shout of surprise, or maybe fright, and Nat zeroes in on him. She raises her fists, sets her jaw, and pounds forward to meet him. 

Out of the corner of her eye, Nat sees Steve matching her stride, but she blocks him out as she pulls her hand back to her bruised cheek and lets it fly into the guard’s throat before he has the chance to draw a weapon. 

He falls in slow motion, and Nat throws a kick at his head.  It’s weak and badly aimed, but it still cracks his neck to the side before his helmet comes into contact with the unforgiving floor.  It bounces loudly, and the echoing sound reverberates inside Nat’s skull. “Hm,” she snorts. 

Nat gets a moment’s satisfaction that the guard doesn’t try to stand up before the floor rushes up to bite her too.

***

It’s the beeping that wakes her.  “Shut…up,” Nat groans. She wants to roll over and pull the pillow over her head, but her body’s too sore and heavy.  Her head hurts. Her face hurts. It must be the middle of the night. Why else would she be this tired?

But she’s not at home.  Through the haze of sleepiness, Nat detects a chemical tang on the air.  She scrubs her hand up her less-sore cheek with the intent of rubbing her eye, but she finds a line of plastic tubing first.  Nat begins to dislodge the cannula from her nose, but a voice says, “Hey, don’t do that.”

“Huh?”  Nat’s voice is so rough she can barely make a sound.

“You have four broken ribs.  I think you’re gonna want that air.”  Steve’s face swims into focus. His arms are folded atop of the rail on the side of the bed, his cheek resting on his elbow.  He looks almost as exhausted as Nat feels, but somehow he’s smiling.

“What’re you looking so happy about?” Nat croaks.

“You’re awake,” he answers shortly. 

Nat blinks and squeezes in a breath.  It feels like she’s pinned beneath a boulder.  She looks down at herself and sees the outline of bandages beneath her thin hospital gown.  “I’m not that happy…to be awake.”

Steve shrugs.  “You had a concussion, you were…”  He shakes his head. “It was bad. I’m just…glad your back.”

“Hm.”  Nat blinks again, fighting the pull of drowsiness. 

“You want some water?”  Steve grabs for a cup with a straw that sits on a table beside the bed.  “The IV’s ben giving you fluids, but you’re probably still pretty dehydrated.”

Nat becomes aware of the pinch in the crook of her arm.  She wants to rip it out, but she’ll wait till Steve’s not watching.  “How…how long have I been here? In medical?”

Steve holds out the cup, and Nat obediently lifts her head a couple inches to take a drought of water.  It’s embarrassing how much effort it takes. 

“Not too long,” he assures her.  “We got in around midnight, and it’s…” Steve looks down at his watch.  He’s in civilian clothes now, Nat realizes. “Not quite 8 in the morning.”

Nat hates losing time like this.  She hates being in medical. She hates being this weak.  Her head flops back down to the pillows as she swallows, her throat raw and inflamed.  She wracks her brains carefully. The only thing Nat remembers about the mission is that there are certain portions she wants to permanently forget.

“Are…are you ok?” she rasps, raising her brows at Steve.  She would ask  _ what happened? _ , but that might give her more than she’s after.

“Me?”  Steve looks taken aback.  “Oh, I’m fine. I mean…” He absently touches his bicep with the opposite hand, white bandages almost blending in with the sleeve of his white t-shirt.  “I got burned a little from their weapons, but I’m fine.”

Nat draws in a long, slow breath.  As her ribs expand painfully, something stirs in her mind.  White lightning. Burning agony. A whispered voice…

She suddenly feels hot and nauseous, and Nat presses her lips together tightly.  “W-what—what did…what have…” she stutters, struggling to keep her breath steady. 

“Hey, take it easy.”  Steve pats Nat’s shoulder, and she pulls away. 

“What’ve you said?  What reports did you file?”

“None,” He says.  “I mean, none yet.”  There’s a pile of manila folders and paperwork on the table beside the water glass. 

“What’ve they done to me?  What did you tell them?” Nat demands.  She coughs, and her broken ribs twinge.

“Nothing.  Nat, calm down.  Breathe.” Steve hovers his hand a few inches over her arm.  “Don’t work yourself up.” 

Nat glares at him, but does her best to quiet her angrily thrumming pulse. 

“I had to give some preliminary info while we were en route, ok?”  He pauses. “I relayed what I knew for sure. That you’d been held captive, probably tortured, and were injured in a skirmish on our way out of there.”

Nat lets his words sink in.  Slowly she nods. “Hm. O…ok.”  She can feasibly pretend that’s all she knows, too.  The rest is foggy anyway.

“Nat,” Steve sighs.  “I know you got hurt.  Really hurt. I know he—”

“Don’t,” Nat hisses.  She squeezes her eyes shut, as if that will also block off her hearing.  “It’s…I don’t even remember.” 

Steve sees through her.  It’s apparent in the lines on his forehead.  “You don’t have to remember. You just have to…tell somebody, Nat.  You can’t let somebody hurt you like that and keep it inside.”

“He didn’t,” Nat says, though she feels like vomiting as the words claw their way out of her throat.  “He…that… It doesn’t hurt me. It isn’t supposed to.”

Steve gapes at her for a moment.  “Nat,” he breathes again. “It… You should report it.”

“I can’t, I…”  Tears start to run from Nat’s eyes before she can stop them.  “I won’t.”

“I didn’t say anything because it’s not my story to tell, not because I think it shouldn’t be told,” Steve says.  “That’s…the opposite of what I think.”

“Well, this isn’t about you, is it?” Nat sneers at him. 

“You’re right.  It’s not about me.  I care about you. I want you to be taken care of.  Even if you don’t want to take care of yourself.” Steve’s voice grows quiet at the end.  He looks like he could cry too. “You haven’t been looking so good. For a while, I mean. And...now this…”

Nat sets her jaw and angrily wipes her eyes.

“Just…write something in your mission report.

A humorless chuckle escapes Nat’s lips.  “I don’t know what goddamn country we were just in,” she snaps.  “I don’t know what we were doing, I don’t know what agency that even was.  I’m not putting shit in my mission report when I could have the facts all wrong.”

“Or, just…tell the doctor.  She could do an exam, and—”

“Shut up, Steve!” Nat says as loudly as she can muster.  “Just shut the goddamn fuck up and get the fuck out of here.”  A sob consumes the end of her sentence, but she can’t turn the words off now.  “Get the fuck away from me.”

“Nat—”

“Fuck you!”  She swings at Steve’s face though she’s too weak to do damage and he easily steps out of the way.   _ Fuck you.  Fuck you _ …  It echoes in Nat’s ears, sounding in her voice, in his voice, in the slam of her head against the wall, of his body into hers…

Nat drags her knees up to her chest and curls over them.  Her breath comes in gasps that send darts of pain through her ribs, but she doesn’t care.  She can’t.

A minute passes.  Or maybe an hour, or maybe the whole day.  Nat realizes her entire body is clenched into a pained contraction, and she lets go of it, sinking limply into the mattress.  Movement flickers in the corner of her eye, and she sees Steve resuming his guarding posture, leaning on the rail on the edge of the bed.  

 

Nat doesn’t say anything.  But later, she thinks, maybe she will..

_____

The moon is running red

Falling, falling

It’s pulling me instead

With a fire

____

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end again, but from Steve's perspective

Steve rests his elbows on the rail on the side of Nat’s bed, his chin on his folded hands.  A nurse hangs a fresh bag of saline and attaches it to her IV drip.  She’s been through two of them already.  She’s thirsty.

“Thanks,” Steve whispers.  Nat’s unconscious, but even if she was awake, she’d probably be in too poor a mood to show gratitude.  The nurse still deserves to know her actions are appreciated.  She blushes at the compliment, then leaves.  Steve and Nat are alone again.

Steve wonders if the hospital staff are leaving her because he’s here, or in spite of it.  Who better to play bodyguard than Captain America, the man with the big muscles and bigger morals?  He’s allowed to be here at all hours because he’s inherently trustworthy, Steve thinks.  What if he weren’t?  What if he was here to take something from Nat instead of give?  The thought makes him sick.

Nat coughs weakly in her sleep, shifting on the pillow so tubing from her oxygen dislodges from behind her ear.  She’s pale as the white sheets, and even with her eyes peacefully closed, Steve can see the lines of pain on her face.  Steve reconsiders.  In comparison, he feels fine.

“Nat,” Steve sighs.   _What did they do to you?_ , he wants to say.  But he doesn’t.  He doesn’t want to know the dirty details; he can guess as much.  What he really means is  _are you going to be ok?_ , to which she’ll say yes and mean no.  Steve shakes his head.  He knows her too well.  That’s part of the problem.  He doesn’t want to hurt her any more.

Nat looks tiny and delicate with the side of her face taped up and the heavy pink blanket pulled up to her shoulders.  Her cheekbones stand out more than they had even a few days ago.  Captivity’s stripped her of a few pounds, but she wasn’t looking good before that, either.  Steve’s seen her tapping out before the last mile on team runs and pointedly ignoring Clint and Stark when they ask her around for drinks on the weekends.  But Steve turns down the invitations too, so he can’t exactly judge.

 _What are you doing to yourself?_  he wants to ask.   _What can I do to help you?_  But he’d be lucky to walk away with a cold shoulder if he put out the offer.  Or maybe a knife to the gut.  Steve knows better than to gamble with other people’s secrets.  Steve’s spent most of his life trusting that people won’t dig too deeply into his.  But if he thought tattling would do any good, he’d say something.  Maybe.  Under the right circumstances.  He’s already turned in his mission report with a few scribbled lines that neither confirm or deny.  He hates himself for it.

 _You need help, Nat.  You don’t have to go this alone._   Steve wants to shake her shoulder and tell her right now.  He doesn’t want her to have to spend another second feeling alone or hurt or like any of it is her fault.  The way she’d fallen apart yesterday and let him hold her in a huddled mess under the staircase, it scares Steve.  It shakes him to his core.  It’s not the way people act when they’re angry with others.  And if she holds onto the self-hatred much longer, she’s not going to break anymore.  She’s going to explode.

“You’re gonna be ok, Nat,” Steve whispers.  “You have to be.  I’m gonna make sure of it.”He hopes she’ll wake up soon so he can tell her again.  It’s going to be a tense conversation, and the anxiety makes his gut ache.  It’s a small price to pay.  Steve needs to say it.  Nat needs to hear it.  But for now, she still needs to sleep.


End file.
